permitted backstage.
Unlike Sandrine, Ballard had never married.
“Poor Ballard, stuck on the
Endless Night
with a horrible view and only his aging, moody girlfriend for company.”
Smiling, he returned to the long steel table, ran his mutilated right hand over the curve of her belly, and cupped her navel. “This is exactly what I asked for. You’re wonderful.”
“But isn’t it funny to think—everything could have been completely different.”
Ballard slid the remaining fingers of his hand down to palpate, lightly, the springy black shrublike curls of her pubic bush.
“Everything is completely different right now.”
“So take off your clothes and fuck me,” Sandrine said. “I can get you hard again in a minute. In thirty seconds.”
“I’m sure you could. But maybe you should put some clothes
on
, so we could go in to lunch.”
“You prefer to have sex in our bed.”
“I do, yes. I don’t understand why you wanted to get naked and lie down on this thing, anyhow. Now, I mean.”
“It isn’t cold, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” She wriggled her torso and did a snow-angel movement with her legs.
“Maybe this time we could catch the waiters.”
“Because we’d be early?”
Ballard nodded. “Indulge me. Put on that sleeveless white French thing.”
“Aye, aye,
mon capitaine
.” She sat up and scooted down the length of the table, pushing herself along the raised vertical edges. These were of dark green marble, about an inch thick and four inches high. On both sides, round metal drains abutted the inner side of the marble. At the end of the table, Sandrine swung her legs down and straightened her arms, like a girl sitting on the end of a diving board. “I know why, too.”
“Why I want you to wear that white thing? I love the way it looks on you.”
“Why you don’t want to have sex on this table.”
“It’s too narrow.”
“You’re thinking about what this table is for. Right? And you don’t want to combine sex with
that
. Only I think that’s exactly why we
should
have sex here.”
“Everything we do, remember, is done by mutual consent. Our Golden Rule.”
“Golden Spoilsport,” she said. “Golden Shower of Shit.”
“See? Everything’s different already.”
Sandrine levered herself off the edge of the table and faced him like a strict schoolmistress who happened momentarily to be naked. “I’m all you’ve got, and sometimes even I don’t understand you.”
“That makes two of us.”
She wheeled around and padded into the bedroom, displaying her plush little bottom and sacral dimples with an absolute confidence Ballard could not but admire.
Although Sandrine and Ballard burst, in utter defiance of a direct order, into the dining room a full nine minutes ahead of schedule, the unseen minions had already done their work and disappeared. On the gleaming rosewood table two formal place settings had been laid, the plates topped with elaborately chased silver covers. Fresh irises brushed blue and yellow filled a tall, sparkling crystal vase.
“I swear, they must have a greenhouse on this yacht,” Ballard said.
“Naked men with muddy hair row the flowers out in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t even think irises grow in the Amazon basin.”
“Little guys who speak bird language can probably grow anything they like.”
“That’s only one tribe, the Pirahã. And all those bird sounds are actual words. It’s a human language.” Ballard walked around the table and took the seat he had claimed as his. He lifted the intricate silver cover. “Now, what is that?” He looked across at Sandrine, who was prodding at the contents of her bowl with a fork.
“Looks like a cut-up sausage. At least, I hope it’s a sausage. And something like broccoli. And a lot of orangey-yellowy goo.” She raised her fork and licked the tines. “Um. Tastes pretty good, actually. But …”
For a moment, she appeared to be lost in time’s great forest.
“I
Unlike Sandrine, Ballard had never married.
“Poor Ballard, stuck on the
Endless Night
with a horrible view and only his aging, moody girlfriend for company.”
Smiling, he returned to the long steel table, ran his mutilated right hand over the curve of her belly, and cupped her navel. “This is exactly what I asked for. You’re wonderful.”
“But isn’t it funny to think—everything could have been completely different.”
Ballard slid the remaining fingers of his hand down to palpate, lightly, the springy black shrublike curls of her pubic bush.
“Everything is completely different right now.”
“So take off your clothes and fuck me,” Sandrine said. “I can get you hard again in a minute. In thirty seconds.”
“I’m sure you could. But maybe you should put some clothes
on
, so we could go in to lunch.”
“You prefer to have sex in our bed.”
“I do, yes. I don’t understand why you wanted to get naked and lie down on this thing, anyhow. Now, I mean.”
“It isn’t cold, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” She wriggled her torso and did a snow-angel movement with her legs.
“Maybe this time we could catch the waiters.”
“Because we’d be early?”
Ballard nodded. “Indulge me. Put on that sleeveless white French thing.”
“Aye, aye,
mon capitaine
.” She sat up and scooted down the length of the table, pushing herself along the raised vertical edges. These were of dark green marble, about an inch thick and four inches high. On both sides, round metal drains abutted the inner side of the marble. At the end of the table, Sandrine swung her legs down and straightened her arms, like a girl sitting on the end of a diving board. “I know why, too.”
“Why I want you to wear that white thing? I love the way it looks on you.”
“Why you don’t want to have sex on this table.”
“It’s too narrow.”
“You’re thinking about what this table is for. Right? And you don’t want to combine sex with
that
. Only I think that’s exactly why we
should
have sex here.”
“Everything we do, remember, is done by mutual consent. Our Golden Rule.”
“Golden Spoilsport,” she said. “Golden Shower of Shit.”
“See? Everything’s different already.”
Sandrine levered herself off the edge of the table and faced him like a strict schoolmistress who happened momentarily to be naked. “I’m all you’ve got, and sometimes even I don’t understand you.”
“That makes two of us.”
She wheeled around and padded into the bedroom, displaying her plush little bottom and sacral dimples with an absolute confidence Ballard could not but admire.
Although Sandrine and Ballard burst, in utter defiance of a direct order, into the dining room a full nine minutes ahead of schedule, the unseen minions had already done their work and disappeared. On the gleaming rosewood table two formal place settings had been laid, the plates topped with elaborately chased silver covers. Fresh irises brushed blue and yellow filled a tall, sparkling crystal vase.
“I swear, they must have a greenhouse on this yacht,” Ballard said.
“Naked men with muddy hair row the flowers out in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t even think irises grow in the Amazon basin.”
“Little guys who speak bird language can probably grow anything they like.”
“That’s only one tribe, the Pirahã. And all those bird sounds are actual words. It’s a human language.” Ballard walked around the table and took the seat he had claimed as his. He lifted the intricate silver cover. “Now, what is that?” He looked across at Sandrine, who was prodding at the contents of her bowl with a fork.
“Looks like a cut-up sausage. At least, I hope it’s a sausage. And something like broccoli. And a lot of orangey-yellowy goo.” She raised her fork and licked the tines. “Um. Tastes pretty good, actually. But …”
For a moment, she appeared to be lost in time’s great forest.
“I
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